A Woadling's Tale
A Woadling's Tale is short story written by an unknown author which was likely recorded from oral tradition. It documents a diaologue between two woadlings as they discuss the politcs of a Woadling radical. Transcript “Tell me… a story…” croaked the old woman. ' '“Of course,” replied the young man. “What sort of story would you like to hear?” The young man gazed into her eyes. Through dimly illuminated by the dancing candle light, they still sparkled with the same wisdom he’d always known her to possess. ' '“A new kind of story.” Retreating into her bearskin blanket and closing her eyes, she added, “one I haven’t heard before.” ' '''The young man had not anticipated this. Usually, his mentor would request familiar stories, frequently interrupting them to make corrections or provider her own personal anecdotes. Sometimes he felt the woman requested stories just to make sure he hadn’t forgotten them. ' '''“Perhaps one about the wolves?” he offered. “I know about wolves,” she retorted, her eyes firmly closed. ' '“How about the burners of old, when they first came to the woad?” “We beat them,” she said with little enthusiasm. “Our people told those stories when I was your age.” A smirk worked its way onto her face. ' '“How about the burners of … today?” “Go on,” she beckoned. “Tell me this new story.” “Well…” started the man, “it began when Niethal-called-Wolfheart, was killed by the burners.” “Wolfheart was killed by the burners..” The interruption did not offend the man. “But not by the lizard-men who spoke in fire and ice.” “The story begins when he died,” the man offered. “Now when he died, his wife wept for him.” “For five days and nights, I remember. I thought I asked you to tell me a new story.” “It is new.” “Then tell it.” “She wept for five days and nights, before the forest claimed her and she became the Weeping Willow.” “You still haven’t told me anything new.” Years spent exchanging tales with the wise woman ensured the man did not lose his composure. He know it was better to let her speak her mind when she had to. ' '“What you haven’t heard about is Wolfheart’s son, who grew old enough to take the fight back to the burners, though it would take him many moons.” Now opening both eyes, the woman turned to the man, the youth in his eyes now flickering in the candlelight. ' '“It sounds like a story for the young,” she sighed, rolling onto her side and closing her eyes again. “But you are right, this is a new story.” “I told you.” “Yes, yes, you were right. Now go on and tell it.” “Wolfheart’s son was young, just a boy, when he watched his father die. He ran to the woods to escape the burner’s steel. Some of Wolfheart’s men tried to find him and bring him home, but they found the burners instead. Wolfheart’s wife wept for them both, it’s why she was changed.” “What was the son’s name?” the woman wondered aloud. ' '“Thorn.” The answer came slowly and deliberately, the man pausing to allow the woman time to process the name. Her eyes opened, but she did not turn to face him. “The same Thorn who now unties the tribes. You taught me how he’s done this, but never why. Well, here is why.” Pausing from his tale, the man approached a smouldering fire pit in the small room. Placing a heap of dried grasses and twigs on the coals, he gently stoked the fire until the twigs snapped and the flames stretched upwards. He spoke softly as he worked. ' '“Thorn survived his father’s battle with the burners and ran into the woad. Three days and nights he resided there.” “Three days is a long time for a boy.” “Long indeed.” “Long enough to become supper for a host of beasts.” “Yet he survived, for he took shelter in his kin’s grandfather grove.” ' '“And the grandfather grove protected him?” “So they say.” The man’s response was swift and subtle, as though he did not believe it himself. “The spirits of the forests and meadows watched over him and safeguarded him while he wept. Nestled in a bed of roots and leaves, The boy whispered his sorrows to the wood, but the wood had claimed enough of his family, so it answered not with the blessing given to his mother.” “A curse, some say.” “A curse, then. Anyways, the wood did not change him, instead it brought him birds and beasts. Thorn followed these animal to a cool stream with berries nearby. He’d reside here by day, but returned always to the grandfather grove at night, where he was safe.” “This wood protected him, then?” “Yes. Though the story says also that the greatbear Beleg watched over him as he slept, and kept the wild things of the woad away from him.” “He was a friend of Beleg’s then? He must truly be blessed.” “Again, so they say.” The man paused to run his hands across the woman’s bearskin blanket, which she held loosely around herself. “They say Thorn eyed Beleg from afar, but feared not for his life, for old Beleg then approached him and kissed his cheek.” “A bear kiss must make for quite a mess,” the woman chuckled. “Can you imagine? A bear kiss?” The woman laughed for a few moments before catching her breath, then she asked, “Why did he leave?” “To find his people, the Treestriders. He sought them out on the fourth day, and found a village he believed belonging to neighborly woadlings. It was not.” Snap! went the fire as the young man added a long, being careful not to snuff the flames with it. Once he was confident the log would begin to roast without destroying the flames, he continued his tale. ' '“It was, in fact, the burner village, which they call ‘Timberline.’ His voice and apparel betrayed his origin, so they took him captive.” ' '“The burners say so much about freedom, yet they believe in it only for themselves.” “It is true. As you know, this was in the times after the lizard-men of fire and frost had left the burners. Though freed from their own chains, they placed Thorn in chains of their own.” “Not for long I bet.” “No, not long. Though how he left those chains depends on who you ask. Some say he fought his way free, and the burners learned not to place shackles upon him. Others think he tricked the burners, convincing them he was no longer their enemy.” “And what do you say?” “I do not know. Only what happens next.” As he continued the story, the young man began collecting articles about the tiny hut. A jug, a pot, a blow, a ladle, a knife, a cutting board, a mortar, and a pestle. ' '“However he escaped those chains, he left. Not long, as the burners brought him back. Every night he escaped and every night they brought him back, and beat him, until he learned to avoid the beatings by not leaving. The burners gave him their clothes, taught him their tongue, and ‘gifted’ him with a name of their own making.They sought to enslave him by making him one of their own, but Thorn did not let them.” “Never?” the old woman was intrigued, the young man could tell. ' '“You’ll just have to let me finish the story and see. He learned to entertain their customs, but never truly adopted them. He didn’t forget who he was. Though he lost his shackles, then was permitted to hunt with them, the burners never allowed Thorn to live as an equal. A little less bread at supper, a heavier deer to carry home, an unending supply of jests made at his expense, all these small injustices reminded him who he was.” “How was he free?” the woman asked impatiently. ' '“We’re getting to that.” The man began to collect ingredients. Dried hemlock hung from the ceiling, manzanita berries picked the day prior, and roots cut from a primrose. ' '“As the burners began to trust him, they told Thorn stories of their own. They’d regale him with stories of the horrors they saw in the woad and of our people. They even told stories of the old greatbear, though they knew not his name. Often the burners would wager if one of them could slay the greatbear, but none were ever foolish enough to attempt such a feat. The burners’ stories were always glorious ones, of brave hunters overcoming the dangers of the woad. Thorn of course, knew better. He’d seen their hunters kill our people (his people), steal their game, and burn their homes. Though they’d never trust him to accompany them on their raids, Thorn saw the destruction they brought on the woad by the stories they told and the loot hey brought.” “They could not all have been bad,” the woman offered. ' '“The burners think themselves to be good, and us to be bad. They think us savages.” “And we think they bad, but they’re not all bad, are they?” she asked. ' '“We think ourselves good, but we know some of our tribe are bad.” Chopping the primrose roots into thin slices, the young man paused from the story, staring not at the woman or his work, but into the fire. It was hot enough now. He drew water from the jung into the pot and hung it delicately over the fire. There was still plenty of light now, so he snuffed the candles to save their wax. ' '“Some of the burners probably are good, but the story doesn’t talk about them. Perhaps Thorn left them out so his escape would send more impressive. Or perhaps the wise women who first told his tale left it out so they could make Thorn seem more self-reliant.” “What wise women?” the old woman cackled. ' '“Perhaps,” the young man continued, ignoring her question, “there really are no good burners. The story does not say.” Working the mortar and pestle until his hands were sore, the young man ground the dried hemlock into a fine dust, stopping only occasionally to check the pot. Once pleased with the grit of the dust, he poured it into the pot, then resumed his oration. ' '“Maybe there aren’t any bad burners, and the stories tell lies. But there are bad woadlings. Thorn learned when the Toadfoots came to Timberline. They sought to fight the burners, and Thorn immediately wished to aid them. Armed only with a pitchfork, he ran to help them, but they saw him as a foe. They saw not a man of the woad, but a man in burner clothes carrying a burner tool as a weapon. An arrow burrowed into Thorn’s leg, very nearly claiming his life. He’s better off for it though, as the Toadfoots were quickly slain. Laiden with loot from raiding the homesteads of burners and woadlings alike, the Toadfoots made valuable targets for the village’s greed and wrath.” “But they didn’t kill Thorn.” “No, they didn’t. Thorn was struck by a stone arrow. Only woadlings use stone, burners use steel. Thorn sought to aid the Toadfoots, but they were slain so quickly and Thorn wounded so early, the burners thought he’d been wounded attempting to aid them instead.” “Suppose he did,” offered the woman. ' '“Then Thorn would be a liar and a traitor,” the man retorted. ' '“And yet he unites the tribes against the burners.” “So he does, though it was not always so. According to the tale, Thorn questioned his own identity that day. The burners falsely commended his bravery and no more did they treat him with ill will. Attacked by his own kind and praised by his enemies, Thorn had never before wanted to be a woadling less.” Pausing again from his fable, the man stirred the pot, which now was boiling. Tossing the manzanita berries in whole, he continued to stir them until they slowly began to dissolve, creating a milky, white substance in the pot. ' '“The burners allowed him to hunt the greatest game with them, and when he proved a skilled hunter, they praised him. He sought their renown by slaying the mighty, old Beleg. He wore Beleg’s fur about him in a great cloak and he and all the burners grew fat on Beleg’s flesh. The feast was lavish, and Thorn was gifted many items of value from his new friends..” “So he gained fame for the murder of his friend?” asked the woman. ''' '''The man’s answer was slow but deliberate, “yes.” “He betrayed him.” The woman’s voice was softer now, though she turned back to look at the man, her hands grasping her bear fur blanket so tightly her knuckles whitened. ''' '''Without warning, the woman began to cough and hack violently, forcing her to sit up in her bed. Her apprentice helped her up, wiped the spittle and blood from her lips and chin, and watched as still she continued wretching her body. The man was silent throughout the display of agony. When finally the attack subsided, the man aided her in a drink of water from the jug. Slowly she drank, not wishing to tax her body any further. Finally, when the woman’s face and mouth had again been wiped clean, she returned to her bed, and the bear fur blanket drawn about her, the man continued. “Beleg was very old then, and tired of life. When Thorn confronted him, he saw pain in the beast’s eyes. Beleg lay in his den, breathing heavily. He watched Thorn, and made no effort to resist the arrow.” “So it was a mercy killing?” the woman hoped. ' '“Perhaps. Perhaps the young Thorn knew his friend was tired of life and sought to ease his passing. Perhaps he sought the fame of the burners and knew Beleg was an easy kill.” The woman was silent now. ''' '''Lowering his voice, the man said, almost to the fire, “perhaps it was both.” Tossing another log on the fire, he continued, “Thorn the young man knew a lifetime of woe, but now was happy. He’d stopped trying to flee the Burners years ago, he’d accepted their chosen name for him, and he made friends with their people.” The man paused momentarily before stating, “he was almost one of them.” “I see,” said the old woman. ‘But as we know he returned to the woad.” “What made him come home?” she begged. “The burners were pleased with Thorn for slaying Beleg because his death left the grandfather grove unprotected. Thorn awoke from a drunken stooper following his feast to find the trunk of the grandfather tree bound in chains and driven by oxen. With saws and axes, the burners hewed limbs and bark from the dead tree as the oxen slowly drug it towards the mill.” Slowly, he poured the milky contents. Some he poured into a bowl, the rest into a waterskin which he corked and stowed away for later. Nearly complete, the man added the last ingredient to the bowl, a small handful of bittersweet berries he took from a dust-covered ceramic jar, being very careful not to break the berries as he handled them. ' '“So Thorn left the burners.” the man said unceremoniously. “Thorn knew the worth of the groves and of the woad itself in ways the burners could never… will never… understand.” ' '“But he did not know the worth of a friend,” replied the old woman. ' '“Maybe,” the man partially agreed. “Maybe not.” “So that is why Thorn unites the tribes?” “There are many reasons he unites the tribes.” The bittersweet berries had now burst and released their contents into the hot liquid, turning the mixture to a pale pink. With a twig, the man stirred the contents of the bowl before tossing the twig in the fire. It hissed as it ignited. ' '“Are you sure you wish to drink?” asked the man. “There is more of the medicine left, without the berries. It would help.” “It would not,” she stated.” “It would feel good going down, but I would still die. I have lived too long and feel too much pain now. Give me the drink with the berries.” “Very well,” the man sighed, and wiped the sweat from his brow. The fire was still blazing. “The wise women would say you should drink the medicine and wait to die.” “What wise women?” she chuckled. “I am tired of the old stories told by old women, yet I don’t belong in the new ones. I like this new story. Ot is a story for the young, for our people to pass on.” “It has spread quickly already, our people are now intrigued by Thorn.” ' '“Because he unites the tribes against the burners.” “Yes.” His reply was soft, almost a whisper. ' '“Will you join him?” she asked. “It remains to be seen. He wishes to fight the burners at their home in Timberline, but I do not know if this is wise.” The man aided the woman to sit up in her bed, and lifting the bowl to her lips, helped her to drink. She drank slowly, drawing all of its contents into her belly. When the bowl was empty, she returned to her bed. With the bowl emptied, the young man placed the bowl on the fire, where it too hissed before igniting. ' '“How long will it take?” the old woman asked, the frog in her throat betraying her fear. ' '“Not long,” he said. ' '''There was a long pause, neither spoke to the other. ' '“How will the story end” she asked. ' '''“I do not know,” he replied. “But it is unlikely to end anytime soon.” “Why is that?” the woman asked. ' '“Thorn is still planning. It will take him years before he is ready to fight the burners, for the tribes are prideful and arrogant. But it will not end with the fight in Timberline.” “Why not? What if he is slain?” the woman sat up now, eager to hear her pupil’s response. ' '“Because,” the man was whispering now, and leaned in close to his mentor. “Because Thorn has a son, whom he’s taught this story to, so that as Thorn continues to become frail and white, there will be a woadling left to protect the woad and unite the tribes.” “What is this boy’s name?” the woman asked. ''' '''The man’s answer was barely audible, “Thistle.” '“I hope he has a good story,” the woman whispered, a wide smile working its way across her face as she relaxed into the bed. She drew two more long breathes, allowing the air to completely fill her lungs with each draw. Exhaling for the last time, the woman felt the man’s hand grasp hold of hers, and then she was dead. '